


Pretty Boy

by ineswrites



Series: Hydra Trash Meme fills [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 3+1, Asexual Character, Bottom Cameron Klein, Bottom Jack Rollins, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: AKA 3 times Brock Rumlow raped someone + 1 time he was raped.“Are you gonna kill me?” he asks quietly.Brock knows the moment the question is asked that’s not what he’s gonna do. It’s Jack who likes killing, while Brock tries to avoid it when possible.But there is a different thing Brock likes doing.A fill for a hydra trash meme prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [The prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=4811999#cmt4811999): so, y'know those, 5 times, etc. fics? i want one like that, but brock, and raping people. candidates include steve, sam, natasha, jack, sharon, bucky, maria, etc. my only set-in-stone requirements are that the victims be ca:tws characters and that 2 of them be jack and bucky (the rest and number is up to you). so yeah. that's all. i think.

  1. **Cameron Klein**



 

Brock doesn’t have a plan. He just sees the fucking nerd on the street, walking there, smiling like nothing happened, like the world didn’t fall apart, and he sees red. He stops the car, grabs the nerd by the collar and drags him kicking and screaming. He throws him in the back of his car like a sack of potatoes and drives off. He surely raised some heads, but nobody stopped him. If anybody called the police, it’s too late now for them to find him.

He drives around, thoughts running through his head, neither lingering long enough to catch his attention.

The nerd collects himself from his initial shock. He supports himself on one elbow, his long legs hanging off the backseat, and looks at Brock. Brock catches his big, scared eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Are you gonna kill me?” he asks quietly.

Brock knows the moment the question is asked that’s not what he’s gonna do. It’s Jack who likes killing, while Brock tries to avoid it when possible. He shakes his head at himself. Don’t think about Jack.

But there’s a different thing Brock likes doing.

He drives into a dead end, kills the engine and gets out. He opens the backdoor and climbs inside, onto the nerd, who gives a tiny squeal and leans away as much as possible, his hands shooting up to push at Brock’s chest. He averts his face and Brock grabs it viciously, turns it.

“Look at me, asshole,” he snarls. “Remember me?”

Brock knows he doesn’t look the same, that half of his face is completely deformed, so it pleases him when the nerd nods slightly, the vice-like grip on his jaw limiting his movements.

“Good, because I remember you very well. Fucking little hero. So brave to disobey my orders. Well, not so much now. You’re gonna do what I say. Understand?”

The nerd whimpers. “Please—”

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t yet know what I have in store for you. Save begging for later.” And with that, Brock pulls the nerd’s pants down. “Well, now you know.”

The nerd kicks out in panic, his fists hit Brock’s chest. Brock grabs his balls.

“Keep moving and you’ll regret it.”

The nerd freezes. He looks away, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the front seat. Brock yanks his own pants down and starts stroking himself. He’s not aroused. He doesn’t do this because he really wants into the nerd’s pants, no matter how pretty he is. But hell, he deserves it. Brock is really just serving some justice here.

He closes his eyes, remembers Jack pliant and so perfect beneath him. He shudders. The memory combined with his pumps makes his cock grow in his hand. He doesn’t have lube – he’s really unprepared for this – so he takes the ointment he uses to soothe his burns and coats himself in it. It’s slick enough.

There isn’t enough space to force the nerd’s legs open, so he pulls his ass cheeks apart. The nerd makes a distressed noise but keeps still. So obedient now.

“Good boy,” Brock murmurs. “Shoulda just launched those ships like I asked. You wouldn’t be in this mess.”

The nerd screams as Brock drives forcefully in. Brock scowls; the kid is fucking loud. He taps around the floor, finds a couple of old sandwich wrappers and pushes them inside his mouth. The nerd gags and convulses.

“Puke in my fucking car and I will kill you,” Brock barks.

The nerd shuts his eyes tight, his eyelashes wet with tears. He forces himself still and quiet and Brock smiles smugly. That’s more like it.

He holds on the nerd’s shoulders to get in a more comfortable position and slams deeper into him, drawing another muffled yelp. Rush of heat goes through him, sweat slowly soaking his shirt, and he regrets not taking it off. It’s gonna irritate his skin. It’s too late now. Better finish it quickly; Brock really doesn’t want to drag it out anyway. Just serve his justice, make the world a little better place and go back to what he now calls life.

He rams inside the hot, smooth tightness until they’re both shaking; Brock with upcoming orgasm and the nerd with sobs. It doesn’t take much to bring himself over the edge; a pull on the nerd’s curly hair, a hand closing on his throat; the nerd jerks his hips, his ass clenches around Brock as he desperately fights for breath, and Brock’s coming with a broken groan. He pulls out, semen painting the nerd’s ass and staining his pants. He tucks himself away and gets out of the car on weak legs. He takes a deep breath. His sweat-covered skin steams in the summer heat.

He grabs the nerd’s ankle and throws him out of the car. He gets back behind the wheel, shuts the door close and pulls away of the dead end.

 

  1. **Jack Rollins**



 

Jack stirs and attempts to turn. He makes a confused noise when his body doesn’t listen. He moves his hands sloppily, undoubtedly trying to pick himself up, but his limbs are uncooperative, and his body too weak. Another noise.

“You’re drugged,” Brock informs him calmly. “Remember me?”

Jack freezes. “Brock?” he slurs.

“Surprise.”

Brock runs his hand down Jack’s naked back. It’s a hot summer night, and he went to sleep naked. Good – gives Brock less work and more play. He pulls the covers off completely and straddles Jack’s hips. Jack moves his arms up, tries to crawl away, but he’s too slow, too weak. Brock’s weakened after The Fall, but he pins Jack down easily with his hand.

“Wha’re you doin’?” Jack asks.

“Taking the one thing you’ve been denying me all this time, asshole,” Brock snarls, his calm demeanor gone.

Jack’s breath hitches, and he struggles under Brock again, but on principle rather than out of belief he can get out of this. Brock patiently waits for his body to slump in defeat.

“Why?” Jack’s voice is close to a whine.

Brock takes a couple of calming breaths. Why, the little ungrateful shit dares to ask. Brock was so good to him. He still remembers the lost kid with anger management issues Jack Rollins used to be. He took him under his wing. Trained him. Groomed him. Made him one of the best agents STRIKE has ever had. Recruited him to Hydra and gave him a purpose. Finally, he gave him himself. Offered his trust and love. That doesn’t come fucking cheap. And this is how Jack repays him – scrams as soon as an opportunity arises, leaving Brock on his own to deal with all the consequences of Hydra’s fall.

Brock’s not an idiot. He doesn’t need Jack, he can take care of himself. But the least his so called boyfriend could give him was some goddamn commitment. He expected nothing more. He was even okay with that not liking sex thing.

Well, not anymore.

“Because you’ve been a bad boy.” It’s not supposed to be a joke, but it sounds a little funny said out loud. He chuckles.

He might’ve taken one pill too many.

He pulls Jack’s hips up, lines them with his own. He’s already half hard, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s easy to get hard around Jack when he’s like this. He’s been wanting Jack for years, like he’s never wanted anybody. Jack’s unwillingness really does it for him. He might have teased him a few times before, come onto him despite Jack’s firm refusals, just for this thrill of desire. It’s pleasant in a way nothing else is. He feels it now, too, his heart thumping so hard he can hear it in his head.

“Brock. Please.”

Jack’s voice is high and clear, and Brock looks down at him. Really looks at him. One side of his face is buried in the pillow, the other is covered by his long, dark hair. Brock brushes it away, reveals a green eye that looks up at him in panic. Jack’s lips are slightly parted, his breath uneven. Brock fingers the scar on his chin. It’s his favorite part of Jack’s appearance. He used to love kissing it.

He pulls away and looks at how they’re positioned. Jack’s lying flat on his chest with Brock’s hand still pinning him down between his shoulder blades. His other hand holds his hips up. Brock’s stomach clenches, sudden pain fills his chest. He licks his lips.

“You’re lucky I still love you,” he says through clenched teeth. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

He turns Jack on his back. He pulls his limp legs apart, bending them in knees, and kneels in between. He leans over Jack, supporting his weight on one hand beside his head.

“I’m gonna make this good for you.”

Jack stares up at him, horrified. Brock realizes this is the first time he fully sees him after The Fall, with his face and body all fucked up. He sneers.

“Yeah, not a pretty boy anymore.”

“Brock, I…” The rest is an incoherent mumble.

Jack closes his eyes and tries to move away again. His knees bump Brock’s sides uselessly.

“It’s okay,” Brock soothes him. He lowers himself on his elbow, their chests brush. Only small parts of Brock’s skin still have feeling, his nerve endings either burned or numb with painkillers. He caresses Jack’s cheek with his knuckles. “I know. But it’s not like you were that much into me when I was still pretty. You’d never touch me. It’s okay. I’ll let you make it up to me. It’s not too late yet. We can make this work.”

Jack gasps. Brock pulls away, sits down on his heels. Jack’s muscles twitch, but the drug has fully kicked in now; he can neither move nor speak.

Brock snatches lube that lies discarded on the bed beside them. He pours a hearty amount on his finger. A splotch lands on the sheets, but it’s alright. It doesn’t matter.

He pushes Jack’s legs even more apart, exposing his entrance. He presses the slicked finger inside. Jack’s muscles are loose from the drug, so there’s no resistance. Jack draws in a shaky breath and Brock looks up. Jack’s eyes are still closed, his cheeks dark.

“It’ll feel good in a moment, I promise,” Brock says.

He moves the finger in and out for a moment, pulls out, pours more lube on his hand and presses two fingers in. Jack opens easily for him. Brock curls his fingers, finds Jack’s prostate, brushes against it. Jack’s breath hitches. His cock, lying limp between his legs up until this point, comes to life.

“Look at you,” Brock almost purrs. “You do like it. Bet you’d be all over me if you knew.”

Jack makes an angry sound. It’d probably be an insult if he could still talk.

“I bet you could come just on my fingers. This your first time, isn’t it? Nobody’s been so good to you before.”

But Brock didn’t come here to please Jack. His plans changed, sure, but it’s still mainly about Brock’s pleasure. About taking what he deserves, what should be rightfully his.

He adds a third finger, and the muscles stretch and twitch around him. He plays with Jack’s prostate until he’s fully hard. Brock’s leaking precome himself, just from this, just from seeing Jack so pliant before him and the anticipation of what’s about to come. It’s getting harder to stay in control. But he will. Jack’s an undeserving piece of shit, but fuck, Brock loves him.

He pulls out his fingers. His hand is so nice and slick on his cock as he coats it in lube, he doesn’t want to let go. He wants to finish now. But it’s gonna be so much better inside Jack.

He hooks Jack’s knee over his shoulder and guides his cock inside the loose entrance. Jack makes a strangled noise and Brock pets his belly, his hand brushing the tip of his dick.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs.

He thrusts his hips, and the head comes in easily. He rests his hands on either of Jack’s sides, bending him almost in half as he hovers over him. He keeps rolling his hips, Jack’s body moving with him, until he’s balls deep in and he pauses for a moment, reveling in the feeling of hot, delicate muscles holding him in a tight embrace.

“I’ve been missing out,” he says.

He pulls out a little and drives back in, the action drawing a sigh from his lips. Jack’s perfect. If all those fuckers jerking it off to the Soldier ever buried their cocks in him, they’d never look at the Soldier again. But Jack is Brock’s, and those fuckers don’t deserve him. Most of them are dead, anyway.

He’s panting and moaning softly as he works his hips in sharp jerks. His arms start to shake, reminding him he’s not as strong as he used to be. He lowers himself on his elbows, trapping Jack’s pulsing cock between them. He kisses Jack’s cheekbone. His skin is hot underneath his lips. Jack still doesn’t open his eyes. He’s panting in rhythm with Brock’s thrusts.

Just panting. Brock is sure he can draw some sweet noises from him.

“Almost forgot about you,” he says. “I’m so selfish.”

He changes the angle, hits Jack’s prostate. Jack’s body shudders, and there it is, a strangled moan spilling out of his mouth. It sends shivers down Brock’s spine, and he’s barely able to keep himself up. He’s getting fatigued. He has to hurry.

He speeds up, his sweaty forehead leaning against Jack’s shoulder. He’s so close – just – a little more. He barely registers the pained noises Jack makes, consumed by need. His mouth falls open, his breath hitches every frantic jerk. His insides tense and hot ecstasy rushes through his body. He slams into Jack one last time before he loses it. His arms give out and he slumps against Jack, his body shakes as his cock pumps come inside him. He lies there, sweaty, surrounded with Jack’s body heat, collecting his breath, trying to force himself to come off his high. He registers Jack’s dick pulsing against his stomach, hot and wet with precome.

He pulls himself up, his arms shaking. Jack’s face is wet with tears. Brock brushes them away.

He pulls out, wipes his cock on the sheets. He watches as his come leaks from Jack’s stretched hole before looking higher. He’s never thought about dicks as pretty, but Jack’s is, long, red and swollen, precome leaking from the shapely head pooling on his abdomen.

“I wish you could see how pretty you are like this. You’ll have to take care of that yourself, though.” He runs his palm up Jack’s cock and stands up. He reaches for his underwear he dropped on the floor earlier along with the rest of his clothes and pulls it on. “I’m not gonna jerk you off. I’m not here to reward you, for fuck’s sake.”

He finishes getting dressed and stands above Jack. His eyes are still leaking tears. Brock makes a face. Jack can be so dramatic sometimes. Nonetheless, he leans in and presses his lips to Jack’s temple.

“Gotta go now, but I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll be together again.”

He leaves through the front door. Jack’s hiding in a small shitty house in a small shitty town. The door doesn’t even close properly. Brock has to slam it twice.

When he returns the next night, the house’s desolate.

 

  1. **The Winter Soldier**



 

Brock’s hands shake as he opens the door. The dimly lit backroom behind it is nothing special. Bits of old lab equipment scattered here and there, covered in a layer of dust. The concrete floor looks clean. In the center, the Winter Soldier is kneeling, unarmed, though still in his tac suit.

Brock licks his lips. He closes the door behind himself, approaches the assassin. He’s known for years about things that are happening in this room. Agent Foster has always been loud about those, sharing his fantasies about Hydra’s prettiest asset. What he isn’t gonna do when he finally becomes a CO. How he isn’t gonna make the pretty soldier squirm. Well, Agent Foster hasn’t become a CO, so he can keep on dreaming.

But Brock, Brock just has.

He grabs the Soldier’s jaw, forces him to look up. Pale eyes meet his. There’s no emotion in them.

“Remember me?” Brock asks.

The Soldier slowly shakes his head.

“It’s okay. You will.”

And if he forgets again, Brock will remind him.

He rubs the Soldier’s jaw absent-mindedly, stubble scratching his fingertips, wondering how he wants to do this. Ideally, he’d press him into the ground and fuck his ass. But the Soldier’s suit looks discouraging – so many buttons and buckles – and he doesn’t have that much time. He brushes the Soldier’s lips, full and pink, and squeezes his jaw to force it open.

The Soldier gets the idea. His mouth falls open, and Brock feeds him his half-erect cock. Anxiety seeps out of his muscles as he does, and he almost laughs in relief. It’s so easy. So easy.

The Soldier’s eyes close and Brock grabs a fistful of his hair, pulls. It earns him a distressed groan, vibrations of it going straight to his cock, that pulses and grows in the hot wet mouth. The Soldier looks up at him glassy-eyed, but there’s no sign of emotion on his face.

“You will watch what I’m doing to you,” Brock snarls. “You like watching, don’t you?”

The Soldier can’t answer, but that was a rhetorical question, anyway.

With a new, but familiar flame inside his chest, Brock pushes in. The head of his cock hits the back of the Soldiers throat. He gags once, twice, before his muscle memory kicks in and he relaxes. Looking straight into Brock’s eyes, he hollows his cheeks, sucks and _swallows_. Brock shuts his eyes with a moan, his hands clenching on the Soldier’s hair. He didn’t think it would feel so good.

He pulls back a little and looks down at that red mouth stretched around the base of his cock. Like hypnotized, he watches it slip out with ease, glistening with saliva. The view alone is addictive, and the sensation… And the knowledge it’s _the Winter Soldier_ on his knees before him, helpless, that if – Brock knows that will never happen, but _if_ – he tried to call for help, he wouldn’t receive it… That Brock has a full right to do this to him…

The tip of the Soldier’s tongue teases the underside of his cock and Brock moans again, his hips driving in of their own accord. He turns off his thinking, and fully concentrates on the sensation of fucking the Soldier’s face. The Soldier takes it stoically, not looking away from Brock even for a moment, though his eyes water from the lack of blinking. His whole mouth now shines with spit, his lips are swollen. Brock speeds up as his balls tighten, chasing his climax. His eyes roll upwards in pleasure, his mouth falls open and he’s unable to keep a choked groan in as he spills his semen down the Soldier’s throat.

His legs feel weak. He takes a stumbling step back, his softening cock slipping off the Soldier’s mouth with an obscene noise. He cracks a smile. His racing heart calms down, sweat dries off on his skin. The Soldier keeps staring at him, his face glossy with fluids, expressionless.

Brock wipes his dick with his hands, and his hands on the back of his t-shirt. It’s sweat-soaked anyway. He tucks himself away, buttons up his pants. He turns away and leaves the room, feeling a few pounds lighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brock was a nice, innocent boy before this happened.
> 
>  
> 
> ...Just kidding, he's had issues ever since his mother abandoned him as a newborn.

       0. **Brock Rumlow**

 

Brock wakes up face-first into his pillow with not enough air in his lungs. When he tries to prop himself up on his elbows, he finds himself pinned down with a heavy hand between his shoulder blades. He gasps in surprise.

“Don’t move,” a voice whispers. Brock’s sleepy mind struggles to connect it to a face.

“What—” he starts, but the hand moves to the back of his head, shoves his face further into the pillow.

“Shut up.”

Brock finally recognizes the voice as Agent Foster. His blood runs cold as anxiety settles in the pit of his stomach. There’s something about Foster that unnerves him. Not his built, though Foster’s huge, a six-foot-five beast that could make Director Fury feel intimidated. No, it’s the way Foster always looks at him, with a nasty grin that lacks a couple of teeth. Brock has always tried to brush it off, though, treat Foster normally, so where does this come from?

Foster’s rough hand lands on his ass. His bare ass. He kicks out, his face hot, drooling on his pillow as he struggles to breathe.

“Get off me!” His voice is muffled, and he’s not sure if Foster understands him. If it even matters.

“Shut the fuck up,” Foster says. His hand clenches Brock’s hip, his fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises. A wet lump grows in Brock's throat, his eyes sting. “Or ya wake up the others. They’ll wanna join and I don’t wanna share.”

Brock freezes. The others. They’re in a safehouse, waiting for evac. There’s four other men sleeping on the floor around them. If they wake up and see… Brock’s just a rookie, his teammates don’t have a whole lot of respect for him, and if they see him pinned down like this, he can forget about ever being one of the guys.

“That’s better.”

Foster pulls his hips up easily, forces his thighs apart with his knee. The pressure on Brock’s head loosens, and he draws in a deep breath, that hitches when an uneven fingernail presses against his asshole. His thighs close on their own.

“No, no, don’t,” he says lowly.

Foster brings his other hand to force his legs back open, too wide for Brock’s comfort. With the pressure pinning down his upper half gone, Brock attempts to crawl away, already knowing it’s hopeless. One sharp pull, and Brock’s ass is shoved against – an odd, strangled sound escapes him as Foster’s hot, hard cock slips between his ass cheeks. His body trembles in revulsion, acid burns his throat. This isn’t happening, there’s no way this is happening.

He looks up, in search of something, any help, _anything_. A pair of pale eyes stares back at him and his heart skips a beat before he recognizes the Winter Soldier. He’s sitting on a chair, expressionless, M16 resting on his knees.

“Help me,” Brock mouths, staring at him wide-eyed and pleading. The Soldier doesn’t even twitch and any hope Brock still had burns down to ashes. The Soldier is on the watch to protect them from outside threats. Not inside ones.

Foster’s huge hand grabs him by the nape and forces him down. The head of his cock pressing against Brock’s entrance is wet, but hardly slick. Brock doesn’t struggle this time. This is happening, no matter how unreal it feels. He rests his head on the pillow and focuses on a crack in the floor that quickly blurs as his eyes glaze over with hot tears.

The head of Foster’s cock pushes inside, and the pain of it blinds him. He bites his lower lip as his muscles clench around the intrusion. His nails dig into his palms and he tries to focus on that rather than a hot, pulsing dick tearing him apart. God, it feels _enormous_. Brock chokes on a sob and brings his hand to his mouth to shut himself up. One cock up his ass is enough. He doesn’t need another four.

Foster thrusts despite the resistance, his low moans and groans making Brock’s stomach churn. It goes on and on and _on_ , long enough for Brock to minimally adjust to the pain. His body slumps, and Foster’s brutal thrust shoves him forwards. He’s all in, now, Brock feels a beefy stomach against the small of his back. Foster’s sweaty hand lets go of his nape, rubs his cheek instead.

“Such a pretty boy,” he says. “Our commander has good taste. They all been tellin’ ya to go for Special Service, no?”

Brock doesn’t confirm. Foster shoves Brock’s hand away from his mouth and forces his fingers inside, pressing onto his tongue. They’re salty from sweat and dirt. Brock shuts his eyes. If Foster pushes any further, he’ll retch.

“Glad ya went for STRIKE after all.”

Brock’s whole body flinches as the cock inside him drags out unexpectedly, and then in yet again, Foster’s hips snapping into his.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Brock blinks away the tears. He’s biting on the thick fingers, drool spilling from his mouth, but Foster doesn’t seem to mind. Rough fingertips rub his tongue and he convulses. Foster’s body is heavy and sticky on top of his, his thrusts shoving him up on the sleeping bag in a punishing rhythm, like Brock’s just a rag doll. 

Wetness fills him, leaks down his thighs and for a short moment Brock’s relieved, waits for Foster to stop, to pull out. But seconds pass and Foster’s still fucking him, his hard cock unrelenting, and it downs on Brock he hasn’t yet come. It isn’t semen running down Brock’s legs. It’s blood. An urge to escape hits him again, and he struggles until Foster’s hand crushes his hip and he brutally thrusts in with a low growl. His body trembles, his fingers slide further into Brock’s mouth, making him choke and cough. Tears leak from Brock’s eyes as he struggles to take a breath.

Finally, Foster pulls his fingers out and Brock retches, coughs out saliva mixed with bile. The cock, now limp, drags out of his ass, spilling more liquid down Brock’s thighs. Brock looks up, watches Foster’s brawny form as he stands up, pulls his sweatpants up and walks away like nothing happened. Brock curls on his side slowly, his insides burning. He forces his stiffened arms to work and pulls his sleeping bag up to his chin. He doesn’t know where his pants went. His sore asshole feels wet. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

He looks up, his eyes still hot with tears. The Winter Soldier is staring at him, as expressionless as ever.

Brock’s chest burns with growing hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the anons who commented in the original thread (: It was greatly appreciated.


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